SEAL Team Six: Memoirs of an Elite Navy SEAL Sniper Read online

  By the end of the war, SEAL Teams One and Two had been decorated with 3 Medals of Honor, 2 Navy Crosses, 42 Silver Stars, 402 Bronze Stars (one of them Rudy’s), and numerous other awards. For every SEAL killed, they killed two hundred. In the late seventies, Rudy helped in the formation of Mobility Six (MOB Six), SEAL Team Two’s counterterrorist unit.

  The SEALs on the John F. Kennedy probably got tired of me, but they shared some of the horror stories of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) Training. They told me about skydiving, scuba diving, shooting, and blowing things up—and catching shrimp in the Delta. They worked hard and played hard. Lots of camaraderie. One told me that he got his orders to BUD/S as a reenlistment incentive. I wanted what they had.

  During a six-month deployment, the John F. Kennedy stopped in Toulon, France, home of France’s aircraft carrier Charles de Gaulle. I had a serious talk with the SEAL lieutenant about what it took to become a SEAL. To reenlist or not to reenlist—it was too big a bargaining chip with the navy to waste. Talk about divine intervention—meeting the right people at the right time. I went to my commanding officer’s stateroom and knocked.

  He cracked his door open.

  “Commander Christiansen, if you can give me orders to BUD/S before my contract expires, I’ll reenlist, sir.”

  “Get your ass in here.” He opened the door.

  I walked in and stood before him. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might have hurt his feelings. I thought I’d joined an elite unit before, but now I knew about a unit that was more elite. There would be no satisfaction staying where I was.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking. BUD/S is not what you really want to do. Take your money, go back home, and finish your education. You have no idea what it takes to become a SEAL.” He spent the better part of an hour telling me what a crazy thing I was asking.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Still in France, three days before I returned to civilian life, my commanding officer’s right-hand man, the executive officer (XO), called me in. “You’ve been a great crewman, and we’d like to keep you around. What do we have to do to keep you in the navy?”

  “I already told Commander Christiansen, sir. If you can give me orders to BUD/S, I’ll reenlist.”

  I went to my hotel, preparing to fly back to the States and become a civilian again. The day before I got on my Air France flight, my buddy Tim showed up at my door. “We just got a teletype in this morning with your orders for BUD/S.”

  “Bull.”

  “Seriously, the skipper told me to bring you back to the boat, so he can talk to you.”

  They’re screwing with me. This is going to be some kind of farewell surprise.

  I went back to the ship and entered the ready room, packed with pilots, crew members, and others. Squadron officers sat in airliner-type armchair seats. A coffee machine and magazines rested on a table. On the “Ouija board,” little airplanes showed the position of each aircraft on the flight deck. A black-and-white monitor displayed landings on the flight deck. The commanding officer called me to the front. He handed me my orders to BUD/S. Everyone clapped and gave me a send-off.

  The orders were contingent on me passing the physical screening test for BUD/S in Jacksonville. I flew back home to Georgia, and Laura drove me down to Florida. During the nearly six months I’d spent on a deployed aircraft carrier, I didn’t have much time to swim—except for rescuing the crew of my crashed helicopter. Before that, I mostly swam with fins on. The test was without fins. I hadn’t practiced the sidestroke and breaststroke required for SEAL training, either. Although I don’t remember the exact physical screening test requirements when the SEALs tested me, they were similar to today’s: a 500-yard swim within 12.5 minutes, rest 10 minutes, 42 push-ups in 2 minutes, rest 2 minutes, 50 sit-ups in 2 minutes, rest 2 minutes, 6 pull-ups before dropping off the bar, rest 10 minutes, run 1.5 miles wearing boots and trousers within 11.5 minutes.

  Twelve of us showed our IDs and paperwork. Then we stripped down to our swim shorts. I was nervous. At the sound of the whistle, we swam. As I neared the end of the 500-yard swim, the SEAL called out the time remaining, “Thirty seconds.” Fighting to swim against each second, I finally reached the end with only fifteen seconds to spare. One applicant was not as fortunate.

  Eleven of us got dressed in T-shirts, long pants, and boots. We did our push-ups and sit-ups. Again, I passed. Two more applicants failed.

  After the two-minute rest, I jumped up on the pull-up bar. The stress of failure can sometimes cause people to implode. I passed, and two others failed.

  Only seven of us remained. Each activity by itself wasn’t so difficult, but doing one after the other was. We stepped onto the running track. The SEAL wished us good luck. I passed. One guy failed. Out of the twelve of us who started, only six of us were left.

  The cuts didn’t stop there. Some applicants didn’t score high enough on the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB), the intelligence test all potential recruits take before entering the military. During dental, medical, and hyperbaric chamber tests, more guys failed. Some guys failed for poor vision or being color-blind. Others failed the psychology testing. One psychology questionnaire asked the same questions over and over. I wasn’t sure if they were checking the reliability of the test or my patience. One question asked, “Do you want to be a fashion designer?” I didn’t know if fashion designers were crazy or if I was crazy for not wanting to be one. It also asked, “Do you have thoughts about suicide?” Not before this test. “Do you like Alice in Wonderland?” How should I know? I never read it. The prophet Moses would’ve failed the psychology test: “Have you had visions?” “Do you have special abilities?” After the paper test, I met with the psychiatrist and told her what she wanted to hear. I passed.

  For the hyperbaric pressure testing, the chamber was a large torpedo-looking thing. I heard that some guys freaked out during the testing—the claustrophobia, air pressure, or both got to them. I stepped inside, sat down, and relaxed: slow breathing, slow heartbeat. The dive officer sealed my door shut. I went down 10 feet, 20 feet. I could feel the air pressure increasing. At 30 feet, I was already yawning and swallowing in order to relieve some of the pressure on my ears. The pressure inside the chamber simulated going down 60 feet underwater and staying there. No problem. After ten minutes at 60 feet under, the dive officer slowly relieved the pressure inside my chamber until it had returned to normal.

  “Good job,” the dive officer said.

  Out of a hundred applicants, I was the only one who passed all the tests. I was beyond excited.

  Laura and I returned home in time for Thanksgiving, and I didn’t have to report to BUD/S until early January. It felt good to be home with her and Blake for the holidays, smiling and laughing, eating warm turkey with hot mashed potatoes and steaming gravy. The only easy day was yesterday.

  5.

  The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday

  When I showed up at the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, California, I walked over the sand berm and saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time. Huge waves crashed in. Holy crap. I jumped into the balmy California water. It wasn’t balmy—especially in comparison to the Florida gulf waters I’d trained in. That’s freezing. I popped out quicker than I’d jumped in. Wonder how much time we’re going to have to spend in that.

  During the days leading up to training, SEAL Master Chief Rick Knepper helped prepare us with early-morning swims in the pool and late-afternoon calisthenics on the beach. Master Chief looked like an ordinary guy in his forties, calmly exercising as we grunted and groaned. He didn’t seem to break a sweat.

  Master Chief didn’t tell us about his experiences in Vietnam. We would have to find out about them from others. Master Chief had served with SEAL Team One, Delta Platoon, 2nd Squad. His squad thought they knew about Hon Tai, a large island in Nha Trang Bay. From a distance, the island looked like a big rock sitting in the ocean for birds to take a crap on. Then two Vietcong, tired of
fighting and being away from family, defected from the island and told U.S. intelligence about the camp full of VC they left behind.

  Under the cover of darkness, Master Chief Knepper’s squad of seven SEALs arrived by boat. Not even the moon shone. His squad free-climbed a 350-foot cliff. After reaching the top, they lowered themselves into the VC camp. The seven-man squad split into two fire teams, taking off their boots and going barefoot to search for a VIP to snatch. Going barefoot didn’t leave behind telltale American boot prints in the dirt. It also made it easier to detect booby traps, and bare feet were easier to pull out of mud than boots. In the camp, though, the VC surprised the SEALs. A grenade landed at Lieutenant ( j.g.) Bob Kerrey’s feet. It exploded, slamming him into the rocks and destroying the lower half of his leg. Lieutenant Kerrey managed to radio the other fire team. When the team arrived, they caught the VC in a deadly crossfire. Four VC tried to escape, but the SEALs mowed them down. Three VC stayed to fight, and the SEALs cut them down, too.

  A hospital corpsman SEAL lost his eye. One of the SEALs put a tourniquet on Kerrey’s leg.

  The SEAL squad snatched several VIPs, along with three large bags of documents (including a list of VC in the city), weapons, and other equipment. Lieutenant Kerrey continued to lead Master Chief Knepper and the others in their squad until they were evacuated. The intel received from the documents and VIPs gave critical information to the allied forces in Vietnam. Lieutenant Kerrey received the Medal of Honor and would go on to become Nebraska’s governor and senator.

  Our mentors were among the best in the business.

  * * *

  On the first morning of indoctrination into BUD/S, we had to do the physical screening test again. After a cold shower and some push-ups, we began the test. Afraid of failing the swim, I kicked and stroked for all I was worth. Somehow, I completed it in time. Then we did the push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups, and run. One guy failed; he hung his head as the instructors sent him packing.

  That evening, the SEAL instructors stood before us and introduced themselves. At the end, Lieutenant Moore told us we could quit if we wanted to by walking outside and ringing the bell three times.

  “I’ll wait,” Lieutenant Moore said.

  I thought the lieutenant was bluffing, but some of my classmates began ringing the bell.

  * * *

  A number of my remaining classmates were impressive: an Iron Man triathlete, a college football player, and others. One evening in the barracks, I looked at myself in the mirror. These guys are like racehorses. What the hell am I doing here?

  The next day, Iron Man rang the bell. I couldn’t understand why.

  One of our first training evolutions included the obstacle course (O-course). One night a SEAL might have to exit a submerged submarine, hang on for dear life as his Zodiac jumps over waves, scale a cliff, hump through enemy territory to his objective, scale a three-story building, do his deed, and get the hell out. The O-course helps prepare a man for that kind of work. It has also broken more than one trainee’s neck or back—climbing over the top of the 60-foot cargo net is a bad time to lose arm strength. Much of our training was dangerous, and injuries were common.

  We lined up in alphabetical order by our last names. I stood near the end, watching everyone take off before me. When my turn came, I took off like a cruise missile. I couldn’t understand why I was passing so many people.

  Partway through, I ran to the bottom of a three-story tower. I jumped up and grabbed the ledge to the second floor, then swung my legs up. I jumped up and grabbed the ledge to the third floor, then swung my legs up. Then I came back down. As I moved on to more obstacles, I noticed someone stuck behind on the three-story tower. There stood Mike W., who had played football at the University of Alabama, tears of frustration streaming down his face because he couldn’t make it to the third floor.

  With a hint of Georgia in his accent, Instructor Stoneclam yelled, “You can run up and down a college football field, but you can’t get up to the top of one obstacle. You sissy!”

  I wondered what the hell was wrong with Mike W. He was in way better shape than I was. Wasn’t he? (Mike would severely injure his back, but Captain Bailey kept him around doing therapy for almost a year. Later, he became an outstanding SEAL officer.)

  A number of the racehorses were the biggest crybabies. They’d probably been number one much of their lives, and now when they had their first taste of adversity—BUD/S style—they couldn’t handle it.

  What the hell is wrong with these prima donnas?

  Although running and swimming came hard for me, the obstacle course turned out to be one of my favorite events. Bobby H. and I were always pushing each other out of the number one ranking. Instructor Stoneclam advised a student, “Look how Wasdin attacks the obstacles.”

  I’d rather be doing this than picking watermelons.

  * * *

  Danger had become a constant companion. Danger or no danger, one of our instructors always spoke in the same monotone. In a classroom at the Naval Special Warfare Center, Instructor Blah’s jungle boot stepped on a 13-foot-long black rubber boat resting on the floor in front of my class. “Today, I’m going to brief you on surf passage. This is the IBS. Some people call it the Itty-Bitty Ship, and you’ll probably have your own pet names to give it, but the navy calls it the Inflatable Boat, Small. You will man it with six to eight men who are about the same height. These men will be your boat crew.”

  He drew a primitive picture on the board of the beach, ocean, and stick men scattered around the IBS. He pointed to the stick men scattered in the ocean. “This is you guys after a wave has just wiped you out.”

  He drew a stick man on the beach. “This is one of you after the ocean spit you out. And guess what? The next thing the ocean is going to spit out is the boat.”

  Instructor Blah used his eraser like a boat. “Now the hundred-and-seventy-pound IBS is full of water and weighs about as much as a small car, and it’s coming right at you here on the beach. What are you going to do? If you’re standing in the road, and a small car comes speeding at you, what are you going to do? Try to outrun it? Of course not. You’re going to get out of the road. Same thing when the boat comes speeding at you. You’re going to get out of the path it’s traveling. Run parallel to the beach.

  “Some of you look sleepy. All of you drop and push ’em out!”

  After push-ups and more instruction, we went outside, where the sunshine had dimmed. Soon we stood by our boats facing the ocean. Bulky orange kapok life jackets covered our battle dress uniforms (BDUs). We tied our hats to the top buttonholes on our shirts with orange cord. Each of us held our paddle like a rifle at the order-arms position, waiting for our boat leaders to come back from where the instructors were briefing them.

  Before long they returned and gave us orders. With boat handle in one hand and paddle in the other, all the crews raced into the water. Losers would pay with their flesh—it pays to be a winner.

  “Ones in!” our boat leader, Mike H., called.

  Our two front men jumped into the boat and started paddling.

  I ran in water almost up to my knees.

  “Twos in!”

  Two more jumped in and started paddling.

  “Threes in!”

  I jumped in with the man across from me, and we paddled. Mike jumped in last, using his oar at the stern to steer. “Stroke, stroke!” he called.

  In front of us, a seven-foot wave formed. I dug my paddle in deep and pulled back as hard as I could.

  “Dig, dig, dig!” Mike called.

  Our boat climbed up the face of the wave. I saw one of the other boats clear the tip. We weren’t so lucky. The wave picked us up and slammed us down, sandwiching us between our boat and the water. As the ocean swallowed us, I swallowed boots, paddles, and cold seawater. I realized, This could kill me.

  Eventually, the ocean spit us out onto the beach along with most of the other boat crews. The instructors greeted us by dropping us. With our boots on the
boats, hands in the sand, and gravity against us, we did push-ups.

  Then we gathered ourselves together and went at it again—with more motivation and better teamwork. This time, we cleared the breakers.

  Back on shore, a boyish-faced trainee from another boat crew picked his paddle up off the beach. As he turned around to face the ocean, a passengerless boat filled with seawater raced at him sideways.

  Instructor Blah shouted into the megaphone, “Get out of there!”

  Boy-Face ran away from the boat, just like the instructors told us not to. Fear has a way of turning Einsteins into amoebas.

  “Run parallel to the beach! Run parallel to the beach!”

  Boy-Face continued to try to outrun the speeding boat. The boat came out of the water and slid sideways like a hovercraft over the hard wet sand. When it ran out of hard wet sand, its momentum carried it over the soft dry sand until it hacked Boy-Face down. Instructor Blah, other instructors, and the ambulance rushed to the wounded man.

  Doc, one of the SEAL instructors, started first aid. No one heard Boy-Face call out in pain. The boat broke his leg at the thigh bone.

  As training progressed, dangers increased. Later in training, instead of landing our boats on the sand under the sun, we would land our boats on boulders at night in front of the Hotel del Coronado while ocean currents cut at us from two directions. Legend has it that those boulders used to be one rock before BUD/S trainees cracked it with their heads.